


the blinding look from me to you

by RestlessWanderings



Series: never get to heaven on a night like this [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, HAROLD THEY'RE LESBIANS, Hurt!Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Wives (Good Omens), Loneliness, Mentions of Violence, Mutual Pining, Pining, Protective!Aziraphale, Sharing a Bed, Swearing, Touch-Starved, Yearning, aching, cuddling for warmth, softe, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:07:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22179052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RestlessWanderings/pseuds/RestlessWanderings
Summary: There are nights Crowley aches so deeply she can hardly stand it. Nights where she’ll do anything to rid herself of it. She knows how Aziraphale’s arms feel around her and it’s the worst kind of torture, the worst kind of agony, because she knows she’ll never have it again.or: crowley aches for aziraphale in the best and worst ways
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: never get to heaven on a night like this [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669786
Comments: 61
Kudos: 268





	the blinding look from me to you

**Author's Note:**

> thanks as always to my beta reader patheticfrog who has told me to make sure y'all know there's LOTS OF PINING
> 
> yes the title is from 'those nights' by bastille along w the lyrics in the beginning
> 
> this has been in my drafts for weeks i almost didn't post if bc it's so self indulgent okay like. i be touch starved and lonely and full of love too
> 
> enjoy!

_i can feel your eyes in the back of my head_

_burning, burning, burning_

_floating through the room as the hairs on my arms are_

_rising, rising, rising_

* * *

There’s no plan in her mind when she scales Eden’s Eastern Wall. All she knows is that she wants to watch Eve and Adam make their way into the desert – _needs_ to watch them go, an incessant tugging in her chest that reaches up into her throat and lodges there like a hot poker, burning and aching and too much to keep contained.

She wanted to say goodbye but didn’t get the chance. All she can give them is her gaze, golden and slitted and now more damned than before. It’s a pittance, really, but there’s not much else she can do.

So she sidles up to the angel on the Easter Gate, all white-gold curls and white flowing robes, and assumes a human shape.

She says something, and it will take her days to remember exactly how the conversation went down, because those blue eyes, all sky and water and icebergs, meet hers and she thinks that _oh, this is – they are – oh._

And, wildly, every part of her jolting, _maybe Falling was worth it._

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

It’s easy, in the beginning, to spot Aziraphale. Blue eyes are nonexistent for the first however many centuries and Aziraphale’s particular shade, all icicle and river rock and ocean, stands out as obtusely as her reptilian ones.

Crawly searches for them despite herself – that flash of blue across a dusty road, across a busy square, across a damn ocean. The days before glasses are some of the most dangerous, because she meets the humans’ eyes – brown and hazel and dark and light – without flinching, searching for _that_ pair of eyes.

Humans’ reactions to her eyes change, their opinions ever-evolving. Sometimes she is feared and worshipped. Sometimes she is feared and chased away. Sometimes she is merely seen as an oddity. Sometimes she is discorporated with a perfectly thrown rock to the back of her distracted head.

How many times had she missed the warning signs in the humans’ eyes in her search for Aziraphale’s blue ones? She doesn’t know. She lost count a while ago.

She’s in a village this time, face dutifully hidden in the deep hood of her cloak, when she spots Aziraphale across the muddy road. The angel is speaking with a tired looking woman and after a moment she lifts her head, frown marring her face, and turns in Crawly’s direction. Crawly freezes, those blue eyes connecting with hers – steely and guarded, a flash of recognition, something almost friendly swimming in them.

Crawly doesn’t see the blow coming. She feels something hard slam into her, missing her head by an inch and colliding into the top of her right shoulder with a sickening crunch. A surprised scream wrenches itself from her throat as she collapses to the ground, her vision already blinking in and out.

She doesn’t try to fight back. It’ll be quick, this time, at least, and she’s due in Hell for a report soon anyway. Whatever human that’s done her in this time won’t be seeing the shiny gates. Killing is killing, even when it’s just a demon.

A boot connects with her ribs and she flinches, closing her eyes, and waits. Another kick. The human – a man – yells something but it’s lost in the pounding of her pulse in her ears. She squeezes her eyes closed tighter, the reptilian part of her sensing the air change as the man raises his foot to bash her head in and -

“Stop this!”

Aziraphale’s voice rings out, cold and clear, steady as a mountain and brooking no argument. Crawly opens her eyes, gritting her teeth against the pain, and sucks in a shallow breath.

Aziraphale’s eyes are sparking with barely controlled Divinity. Her silhouette blocks the sun, makes a halo of her curls, and Crawly could bask in her shadow for the rest of time.

It strikes Crawly, then, that this is how it’s meant to be – Aziraphale, shining like the sun. Herself, ensconced in shadow. She is a demon, after all. Demons don’t get to bask in the light. Demons don’t get to be rescued. Demons don’t get mercy.

It doesn’t stop her from wanting it, though.

Aziraphale says something but it’s lost in the clamor of the people around them, and in a swift movement the angel kneels, fretting, her hands hovering over Crawly but not touching, never touching.

Would her touch burn?

“Oh, good Lord,” Aziraphale says.

Crawly snorts. “Don’t think She’ll be willing to do anything for me.”

“Well,” Aziraphale says, looking away for a moment and glaring at the small crowd around them. She snaps her fingers and Crawly feels the buzz of Divinity spark through the air around her. The crowd disperses. Aziraphale looks back at her, fingers almost touching the dent in Crawly’s shoulder. “I would like to try and heal this, if you’ll let me.”

Crawly gapes. “I – you – you _what?”_

“Did he get your head?” Aziraphale asks, and now they touch, softer than anything Crawly has ever felt, and her world spins at the feeling of Aziraphale’s fingers in her hair.

“Ngk,” Crawly says, closing her eyes.

“Let me know if this hurts,” Aziraphale says, and Crawly feels the air buzz against her skin. She tenses, expecting pain, expecting her skin to melt, maybe, because angels shouldn’t be touching demons, shouldn’t be healing them, shouldn’t be -

And yet.

Aziraphale’s miracle, buzzy as it is, doesn’t hurt. It feels like a hot rock being placed on her skin, the heat slowly working its way through her muscle and down into her bones. She sighs, relaxing into the angel’s touch.

“There, there,” Aziraphale says, moving away, and Crawly bites back a noise of complaint. Aziraphale smiles at her, offering a hand to help her up, and Crawly takes it, head still fuzzy, a lingering ache running through her shoulder that’ll persist for the next couple of days. Her ribs twinge and she uses one of her own miracles to heal them as she brushes the dust and dirt from her clothes.

Crawly clears her throat. “Should I say thank you?” she asks, pulling her hood up.

Something like disappointment flashes across Aziraphale’s face. “No. Best not,” she says. “What would they say if they found out I’d saved a demon from an unprovoked attack?”

Crawly snorts, ignoring the pang in her chest. “Don’t know which humans you’ve been hanging around, angel, but a little bit of difference is really all it takes,” she says, gesturing to her eyes.

Aziraphale frowns, brows scrunching together, and Crawly is struck with the sudden urge to raise her hand and smooth the lines out. Wants to trail her fingertips down the sides of the angel’s face, wants to trace the curve of her brow.

She doesn’t, of course. Instead she stands there, hoping the depth of the hood is enough that Aziraphale won’t catch her staring.

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale says, wringing her hands together. “I’ll leave you to it, I suppose.”

_Please don’t,_ Crawly thinks, biting her tongue so she doesn’t say it aloud. This is the first real interaction she’s had in decades; the first time she’s spoken to someone without having any other agenda in _decades._

But there’s nothing left to say. Aziraphale nods. “Demon,” she says, turning away.

Crawly stands there at the corner of the building, letting the afternoon sun warm her. It doesn’t reach down deep enough, doesn’t warm the core of her or the marrow of her bones, but it soothes the blow Aziraphale has just unknowingly dealt her.

Or maybe Aziraphale knew what she was doing. _Can’t be hurt about that,_ she thinks. _It’s not like she was wrong._

Still. The back of her head burns as she walks in the opposite direction, and she knows without looking that Aziraphale is staring at her, making sure she leaves.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

She spends the bulk of her nights stargazing. Finds a soft patch of ground far away from any humans and lets the ache in her chest consume her. Lets herself grieve the person she once was – not because she misses Heaven, not because she regrets, but because she misses the stars. Misses feeling that power – that _Divinity –_ welling up in her.

When it gets to be too much she looks at her hands and flexes them, testing each muscle. She wove stardust, once. She held atoms on her fingertips, once. She dove into the great blackness of space and whispered _let there be light,_ once.

Once upon a time she strung life itself together on a grand scale, the kind of scale rivaled only by God Herself.

But the place where her Divinity once welled up from is different now, bubbling with sulphur and bricked with brimstone. Crowley snarls at herself, clenching her hands into fists, and in a move she knows she’ll regret later she reaches deep into that well of power and _pulls._ She _wills_ as hard as she can, delving into that great reservoir of power – feels her hands begin to heat, feels the air around her buzz, feels the Universe begin to respond, feels –

The pain hits her like a whip, crackling through her too-human body as the power whiplashes back into her. She screams, curling into herself, her wings appearing with a _fwoosh_ and wrapping around her on instinct.

There is nothing, for a time, and when Crowley opens her eyes and peers between her feathers grey dawn light is beginning to reach across the ground, gentle and soft and everything Crowley wants but can’t have anymore. She sits up with a groan, body protesting each movement, her head pounding. Her hands sting like a bad sunburn and when she looks at them she realizes that they’re not covered in skin but with scales. Some of them have burnt away. Muscle and bone glisten in the morning light. Her claws are out too, one of them cracked and throbbing. She picks at the scales that are barely hanging on, flicking them away as she chokes back a sob.

It’s stupid, she knows, to think that God can’t see her in these moments. Stupid to think that, with as Damned as she is now, her wings are enough to allow her to blend seamlessly into the slowly lifting darkness around her. But she wills herself to believe it anyway because God doesn’t get to know how badly she’s hurting. God doesn’t get the satisfaction of that, not now, not ever.

The tears fall without her say-so and she swipes at them, stuffing the core-deep loneliness into a box and buries it as deeply as she can. Rises on weak knees and rolls her shoulders, hiding her wings, and watches as the sun rises. Watches as the stars fade away until there’s no sign of them left.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

They meet again. And again. And again. Sometimes Crowley actively seeks out Aziraphale, keeping her head to the ground and following the traces of her angelic presence. She spends far too many hours as a snake curled up high in the treetops, spying on the angel as she goes about her business. She’s mostly positive that Aziraphale knows she’s there, but Aziraphale doesn’t mention it and neither does she.

The winters get worse. Sometimes she goes further South, sometimes hopping off to another continent altogether. The ones that will be known as South and Central America she takes a particular liking to. Never too cold, never too dry. Every once in a while she lets herself be big – lets herself take up space as a snake the way she never quite can in her human form. Lets herself be spotted sometimes too.

She doesn’t mean to help in the creation of a snake god but humans are imaginative little beasts. She loves them for it.

For the most part, though, her winters are spent in colder climes. She’s almost certain Beelzebub is doing it on purpose so that when she has to report to Hell she’ll be shivering the whole time, her body desperately trying to acclimate from one extreme to the next.

There’s one winter in the fourteenth century, though, that is bad. Worse than bad.

She’s colder than she can ever remember being. It burrows into her, hooks its claws into her essence and sinks deeper until she thinks she’ll never be warm again. She tries miracling herself more clothes, more blankets, a fire, _something,_ but it’s no use. She can’t remember being warm. Can’t even imagine it.

She’s in a mountain range. Not sure where, but it’s snowing, the wind is blowing, and she’s not shivering anymore. Each step takes a lifetime but she pushes on, following the angelic trail. Aziraphale will either get her warm again or she’ll put her out of her misery. Crowley doesn’t care which.

Her thoughts go fuzzy and she doesn’t know how much time passes before she comes back to herself. She’s horizontal, wrapped in a blanket, eyes closed. Tastes the air: fire and ice and Divinity.

She opens her eyes. The room is small, the bed smaller, and there’s a minuscule desk shoved into a corner by a boarded slit of a window. The fire lights the room and Crowley sighs, exhaustion pulling on her bones, and nestles further back into the glorious warmth behind her.

A hand, familiar and unfamiliar, cards through her hair. “Go back to sleep, Crowley,” the voice says, breath warm against Crowley’s ear.

Crowley relaxes further. Melts into her embrace and soaks in her warmth.

She dozes. It takes her too long – far too long – to realize that Aziraphale is the one behind her. It’s the angel’s arms that are wrapped around her, the angel’s breaths tickling her ear, the angel’s fingers running through her hair, idly detangling it.

She’s humming under her breath, some tune that Crowley vaguely remembers from Heaven, and Crowley opens her eyes, tasting the air again.

Divinity. Buzzing across her skin like blunt nails. Not enough to hurt but enough to sting a bit. Crowley makes a confused noise before she can stop herself and the Divinity lowers to barely-there brushes.

“Had to get you warmed up somehow,” Aziraphale says. “You were so close to discorporation I didn’t think I’d be able to pull you back.”

Crowley’s tongue is heavy in her mouth but her heart is steady in her chest. “Sssorry, angel,” she hisses, words slurring.

The arms around her tighten. “Sleep, Crowley.”

And Crowley wants to. Wants to sink down into oblivion with Aziraphale’s warmth at her back. Wants to accept this moment and live in it for the rest of her existence.

But she can’t. Because the other shoe is bound to drop and she’d rather know when than wait.

“Why?” she asks, more awake now but still weary, voice tired and slow.

“Why what?”

“Why save me?”

Aziraphale pauses long enough that Crowley nearly falls back asleep. She answers, though, words so soft that Crowley thinks maybe she isn’t supposed to hear them: “What kind of angel would I be if I let you die when I could do something about it?”

Crowley sighs, long and deep, sleep tugging at her consciousness. She gives into it, gives into the feeling of Aziraphale’s fingers still running through her hair, gives into the sense of safety permeating the little room.

They don’t speak about it the next morning. Or ever, really, despite how much Crowley wants to.

_Do you like me, angel?_ she wants to ask. Wants to ask: “We’re friends, right?” Wants to ask: “Why don’t you ever try to hurt me?” Wants to ask: “Would you let me hang around longer, angel?” Wants to ask: “What’s in this for you?” Wants to ask: “How much longer until you tell me to leave?”

She wants to ask: “Where do I fit in your future?”

Because she can see it. Can see innumerable days where she wakes up in Aziraphale’s arms. Sees innumerable days spent together. Sees and sees and sees.

She nearly swallows her tongue to keep herself from asking them. The last time she asked questions – the _important_ questions, the questions that really _mattered_ – she Fell. And there are things she’s willing to risk for the sake of her curiosity – her safety, her reputation, her own damned Divinity – but not Aziraphale. Never Aziraphale.

So she doesn’t.

Instead she slips away later the next day when Aziraphale has gone to check on the monks and the storm has waned. She miracles herself further South, finds an abandoned animal den, miracles it bigger and makes it better hidden, miracles a bed, and sleeps. 

She sleeps for the rest of the fourteenth century, haunted by the feeling of Aziraphale’s warmth at her back, haunted by those arms around her waist, haunted by those brilliant blue eyes peering at her from the low-light of that tiny little room, all cornflowers and thunderstorms and icebergs.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Sleep becomes part of her routine, slipping seamlessly into her life without her really thinking about it. She does it in the beginning because she doesn’t know if she can handle everything – existence, ineffability, her own demonic nature – without some sort of break. So she begins sleeping and realizes, to her immense displeasure, that it makes some things more bearable and other things less so.

She dreams of her Fall. Of various discorporations. Of things she had to do and couldn’t half-ass. And those should be the worst. Those nightmares, those memories, are worthy of haunting her.

And they do. She awakens plenty of times as the years go by with her heart in her throat, a scream lodged behind teeth clenched so hard her jaw creaks. The worst ones make her jolt awake with a panicked cry, her fangs and claws at the ready, scales layering her neck and torso in defense. She’ll swallow venom for days after that, the taste sharp and bitter with a hint of copper and sulphur.

The worst dreams, though, are always the most innocuous.

She wakes slowly, lingering in a dream she can’t remember except for the softness of it. She sighs, muscles serpent loose and relaxed, all but melting into her sheets. Fingers card gently through her hair, all warm and lovely, and, still in that hazy state between wakefulness and sleep, she turns to grasp at the angel tucked in behind her, hands reaching reaching _reaching –_

-and closing around empty air. The sheets are cold on that side of the bed, utterly unslept in, the same way they’ve been since she started sleeping. She curls into herself, tears brimming, the ache in her chest radiating throughout her body.

_Don’t go,_ she thinks, knowing it won’t do any good but still wishing, still wanting, still pleading with – with –

Not God. Not Satan. Maybe the universe itself, maybe the stars she created, maybe the fickle currents of fate.

She is, despite herself, hopeful that one day, _one day,_ she’ll wake up with Aziraphale next to her.

One day.

But the longing crests over her and she spends the rest of the day curled in on herself, staring balefully at the empty space next to her, half wanting to imagine and half never wanting to imagine again.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

“It’s not like I can get into Heaven, Angel,” Crowley says, watching as Aziraphale begins peeling an orange.

“Yes, yes, I know that,” Aziraphale says, shooting Crowley a look. “But that doesn’t mean I want to lose my spot in Heaven.”

Crowley scoffs. “You’re not going to Fall.” _I’d Fall again before I let that happen._

Aziraphale hums. “This Arrangement you’ve proposed is dangerous. It treads on feet better left untread.”

Crowley shrugs. “What’s eternity without a little rebellion?”

Again, Aziraphale shoots her a withering look. “Because that turned out so well for you last time.”

Crowley puts up her hands in faux defeat. “Listen, listen, if it gets too dangerous you can bail whenever you want to, no hard feelings. Let me worry about myself.”

But Aziraphale frowns harder, flicking away the orange peels. “And what about you? I doubt you’ll be able to ‘bail out,” she says. She turns fully towards Crowley, uninterested in the orange, her gaze so intense that Crowley has to ball up her hands so she doesn’t do anything untoward. “You’ve said it yourself that Hell doesn’t send reprimands via notes. What will happen to you if we get caught?”

Nothing good. Crowley doesn’t even want to think about it, so she shrugs again. “I can worry about that later. All I know is that right now I don’t want to go up that far North this time of the year. I’m cold just thinking about it.” Crowley shivers at the thought, wrapping her arms around herself despite the warm summer sun streaming through the window.

Aziraphale looks at her, her gaze casing Crowley to blush. “You never have been one for the cold.”

“No, I haven’t.”

A beat of silence passes before Aziraphale sighs, holding out her hand. “Deal.”

Crowley gapes. “You – I – _What?”_

Aziraphale looks decidedly unimpressed. “Fine. I agree to your little Arrangement. Besides, I’d hate to have to cuddle you to life again.”

All signs of higher thinking immediately shut off in Crowley’s brain as she shakes Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale gives her another once over, nods again, and leaves the tavern the way she came.

It takes a few drinks for Crowley to recover from that particular fourteenth century memory, and it’s days before her hand stops tingling. 

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

She spends an inordinate amount of time watching Aziraphale. Watches the angel eat, watches the angel read, watches the angel putter around. Once Aziraphale had discovered the written word – or, rather, once the humans had discovered it – there was no stopping her.

Crowley watches, enchanted, as Aziraphale reads a scroll. She’s reading aloud, her voice curling around the syllables as if they’re holy, as if the words were God’s rather than some human’s. Crowley isn’t paying attention, not really. She’s too busy watching Aziraphale’s eyes skirt about the page, intense and focused in a way they usually only are when she’s performing a particularly powerful miracle. Her lips curl upwards, slowly but surely, and her brows twitch every once in a while, broadcasting her surprise at some turn of phrase.

Crowley can’t help herself. She leans closer, closer. Testing the boundaries, testing the lines in the sand. Which ones she can cross and which ones are better left brushed up against. Before she knows what she’s doing her shoulder is pressed into Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale stutters, her gaze burning Crowley’s face, but Crowley squints at the scroll instead, pretending to read. None of the words make sense, or maybe they do but her brain can’t register them. Aziraphale opens her mouth to say something but Crowley beats her to it.

“Sailing, then?” she asks.

“What – oh,” Aziraphale says, her gaze moving back to the scroll and Crowley shivers at the loss of it. “Yes,” she says. “Haven’t you been listening? I thought you’d like it, what with your own penchant for adventure.”

Crowley shrugs. “Not one for going across large bodies of water, me.”

“And why ever not?” Aziraphale asks, turning her full attention on Crowley again.

Crowley meets her gaze. “Demons aren’t exactly fond of water.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “Surely you can sense whether water is holy or not.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t stop us from getting a bit nervous around large quantities of it,” Crowley says. “Haven’t you been to India? They’ve got seven holy rivers over there.” Crowley shivers, shaking her head. “Best to keep away from all of it, I say. Never know when an entire ocean is suddenly going to be blessed.”

Aziraphale frowns, pursing her lips. “I didn’t know that would harm you. Different religion and all.”

Crowley snorts. “Holy is holy, Angel. And there’s nothing holy about me.”

A beat. Crowley looks at Aziraphale from the corner of her eye and almost jumps at the intensity of Aziraphale’s stare, at the way her mouth begins moving as if to protest.

The moment passes and Aziraphale stands. “Speaking of, I really must be going,” she says quickly, rolling up the scroll with deft hands.

_Please stay._ “Thought we were having a decent time, Angel,” Crowley says, catching herself when she reaches out a hand to beckon Aziraphale to stay. She scratches the back of her neck instead, going for nonchalant.

“Yes, well, I need to go,” Aziraphale says. Her eyes sparkle in the sunlight, her white-gold curls bright and lovely. For a moment it looks as if she’s going to say something else – her eyes cut down to the ground and she opens her mouth, inhaling a sharp breath, but she shakes her head. Gives Crowley a curt nod and leaves, climbing back up the stone stairs leading to the town.

Crowley stays a little longer, listening to the waves crash below her and soaking up the sun. Tries to ignore the ache in her chest.

Fails.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

“Crowley, is that you?”

Aziraphale’s voice shocks her out of her reverie. She startles, head whipping behind her, a hiss nearly slipping from her lips before she can stop herself. She registers Aziraphale a second later and relaxes.

“Hey, Angel,” she says, patting the ground beside her. “Lovely night to watch the stars.” There are clouds in the distance, great and billowing and promising rainfall, but they haven’t obscured the sky too much yet.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, settling down beside her. She passes her a bottle and Crowley doesn’t bother asking what’s in it before she takes a drink.

Whatever it is it burns a delicious path down her throat and into her stomach and she grins. “Not pulling the punches tonight, I see.”

“No,” Aziraphale says, “I don’t suppose so.”

Crowley squints at her, assessing. The furrowed brow, the downturn of her lips, the hunch of her shoulders. She presses her lips together.

“What’s wrong, Angel?”

Aziraphale sighs. “Nothing, not really. Just part of the plan.”

“The Ineffable one?”

“Is there any other?”

Crowley shrugs. “I try not to understand what She’s thinking. Gave up on that a long time ago.”

Aziraphale gives her an undecipherable look. Crowley passes the bottle back to her and watches as she takes a generous swig of it. Watches her clench the bottle close to her chest as if it’ll save her from whatever’s going on in her head.

“I made them, you know,” Crowley says.

“What?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley jerks her chin up. “The stars,” she says. “Not all of them, of course, but a good number.”

Aziraphale’s eyes go wide, a thousand shades of blue and all of them unnamable. “Really?” she asks, voice high in surprise.

Crowley grins, flashing her teeth, unable to stop the pride welling up in her chest. “Oh yeah. Always hoped the humans would be able to see them. Wasn’t sure, not until I came down here myself.”

“Which one is your favorite?”

Crowley doesn’t have to think. “Alpha Centauri,” she says. “Not that they’ve named it that, yet.” She points to it, glittering brightly in the Southern sky. “Makes up that bit of the centaur constellation, see?”

Aziraphale smiles, a lovely thing that reaches the corners of her eyes and makes her entire face brighten so much that Crowley almost has to look away. She doesn’t, though. Would go blind a thousand times over to see a smile like that appear on Aziraphale’s face.

“Oh, Crowley, it’s beautiful. I didn’t think –” she grinds to a halt, a panicked, guilty look marring her face, and Crowley would do anything to never see it again.

She gets it, she does, but it still stings. “Didn’t think a demon like me could ever create something like that?”

Aziraphale wrings her hands together. “I’m sorry, my dear, I –”

“Don’t,” Crowley says, heart skipping a beat over the endearment. “What would they say, an angel forgiving a demon?”

“Quite right,” Aziraphale says, looking up at the sky again. “Still, though.”

Crowley shakes her head. “Don’t be sorry, Angel,” she says, voice softer than she means for it to be. “Most of the time I can’t believe I managed all of that either.”

They lapse into silence. Nothing awkward in it, not after all of the years they’ve run into each other. Crowley would go so far as to say they’re friends, especially with the Arrangement in place, but she doesn’t say so out loud. Doesn’t dare. Anything could scare Aziraphale away and she’s worked too bloody hard to get Aziraphale as comfortable as she can be with the Arrangement.

She’s not going to ruin it by slapping a label on whatever they are. Not going to ruin it by wanting more than what’s being offered. She’s been down that road before, asked too many questions before, _wanted_ too much before. She knows how it ends.

It doesn’t stop her from reveling in Aziraphale’s closeness, though. It’s a chilly night, enough that Crowley, ever sensitive to temperature, is on the verge of shivering. She leans into Aziraphale’s space, soaking up her warmth.

The clouds that have been steadily approaching from the West finally begin to encroach upon their patch of sky. A light drizzle starts up and Crowley does shiver now, wrapping her arms around herself in an attempt to stave off the chill.

A nearly silent _fwoosh_ is the only warning she gets before Aziraphale’s wing is over her, nearly glowing in the starlight, protecting her from the rain. She tries to force down a blush but can’t quite manage it.

Aziraphale smiles but doesn’t look at her, still staring up at the sky. “Do you ever miss it?”

“Miss what?”

“The stars.”

_Like a limb. Like mother misses their child. Like downed bird misses the sky._ Crowley swallows, hugging her knees to her chest. “Yeah,” she says around the sudden lump in her throat. Despite living with it for a few thousand years the ache is as sharp as ever. She swallows hard. Clears her throat a few times.

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything, but she stays with Crowley even as the rain grows harder. Stays when the temperature drops further. Stays when the clouds obscure the stars. Stays until dawn and the storm breaks, until the sun begins rising and dries them.

Neither of them say anything as they stand, the sun warming them. Aziraphale’s wings glitter in the sunlight and she’s still standing close, too close, and it takes every ounce of willpower to not touch her. To not hug her. To not kiss her. 

Crowley looks at Aziraphale’s face, a quip at the ready, but it dies on her tongue when she finds Aziraphale already looking at her. Her eyes are bright and intense, all deep oceans and whirlpools, and Crowley sucks in a sharp breath.

“See you around, Angel,” she chokes out, turning and nearly running down the hill before her Angel can reply.

She shakes her head as she goes. _Not mine, she’s not mine, she’ll never be mine._

Aziraphale’s gaze burns the back of her head for a long, long time.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

She grins at Aziraphale, half drunk from the alcohol and half drunk from giddiness. “Well, Angel, they’ve done it. They’ve found the first one.”

“The first one of what?”

Crowley can hardly speak through her cackling. “Dinosaurs, Angel! Great big lizards!” she says. “Nearly forgot I buried them.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale says, but the grin she’s sporting undermines the admonishment. “That’s horrible.”

“I know,” Crowley says. “Think of all the debate this is going to cause. All the arguments. It’s going to drive some of them insane, Angel, I can sense it.”

Aziraphale rolls her eyes in a way that Crowley can only read as fond, settling into her armchair. The bookshop is still new but it’s already lovely and cozy and permeated with Aziraphale’s presence. Crowley could bask in it for the rest of time.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Angel,” she says, waggling a finger. “You’re just upset that you didn’t thwart me.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “I won’t need to thwart you; the humans will do that for me. They’ll never believe giant lizards once walked on Earth.”

Crowley laughs so hard she nearly falls to the floor. “Angel,” she says through her laughter, gasping, “you realize they’ll believe anything with even a smidgen of proof, right?”

The horrified, resigned, partly amused look on Aziraphale’s face is worth every single long night she spent burying the bones all of those centuries ago.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Crowley runs through the forest, dodging firelight, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The baying of the hounds gets closer, close enough to send an extra pump of adrenaline through Crowley’s veins. She snaps her fingers, drawing on that well of demonic energy residing in herself, but the miracle fizzles out.

“Shit,” she hisses. “Shit shit _shit._ ”

She leaps over a fallen tree, stumbling when the landing jars her wounds. The stumble turns into a full-fledged fall and the feeling of it sends panic shooting down her spine. After a breath she scrambles towards the jutting roots of a nearby tree, struggling to get her breathing under control.

Crowley closes her eyes. She’ll be discorporated for sure and Hell won’t be happy, not this time. How long will it take her to get back up here? How long was she in captivity? Is Aziraphale okay? Does she think Crowley abandoned her? Is she happy?

They’ve gone far longer without speaking, Crowley knows, even with the Arrangement in place. But a pattern had slowly started forming – she’d managed to get Aziraphale to eat out with her and have drinks once every two weeks. An accomplishment, really, given how skittish her angel could be.

_Not yours,_ she reminds herself.

Crowley sits down in the roots of the tree and waits. It won’t be long now. The one good thing about Hellhound hybrids – they don’t know how to stop. When they find her they will rip her apart, but at least she won’t be in that damned basement anymore.

Her luck, really, to be summoned by an _actual_ murderous cult who somehow managed to get their hands on Hellhound hybrids.

She’s going to rip Ligur’s fucking head off the next time she sees him.

Which. Will probably be quite soon, actually.

She closes her eyes. Tucks her knees into her chest as best she can, the serpent part of her still needing to protect her vulnerable bits. She doesn’t pray, not really, not on purpose, but she lets her mind go calm and lets her thoughts wander.

She wants her last thoughts to be of Aziraphale.

She always wants her last thoughts to be of Aziraphale.

_Sorry, Angel,_ she thinks. _Didn’t mean to stand you up. I don’t know how long I’ll be, but try not to get into trouble, you hear me Aziraphale?_ She frowns, thinking harder. _Don’t do anything stupid, Angel. Don’t make me have to do something equally stupid to get you out of trouble._

The air around her buzzes, shifts, and all at once Crowley feels the tension running through her body ebb away. She opens her eyes and meets Aziraphale’s blue ones, too blue, all hurricanes and stormy seas and lightning.

“Angel,” she says, grinning, feeling her bottom lip split open.

_You bastard,_ she thinks.

Aziraphale stands before her looking the same as she always has – short curly hair, dapper white suit, fiddling with that golden pinkie ring. But Crowley has known her for thousands of years, can spot the way her eyes case the area, the way her body shifts into a defensive stance, the way her right hand clenches as if around a weapon.

Crowley squints, eyeing the nearly invisible outlines of Aziraphale’s wings, and knows she’ll be okay.

A Hellhound hybrid crashes through the brush, snarling, red eyes glowing in the darkness, and Aziraphale’s eyes glow brighter.

“Crowley,” she says, voice brooking no argument. “Look away.”

Crowley doesn’t need to be told twice. She presses herself hard against the tree trunk and buries her face in her hands, squeezing her eyes shut as hard as she can. The buzzing in the air grows sharper, scratching at her, increasing in intensity until Crowley has to bite her lip against crying out. She can see the white light glowing through her hands and eyelids, can hear the Hellhound hybrids snarl and yelp, can feel the heat of Aziraphale’s Divinity as it slices through the air.

Through it all, though, she wants to open her eyes. Wants to see her angel in action. Wants to see her angel fight. Because for all of that softness there’s a backbone of iron and steel. Angels were meant to endure, after all. Were meant to be the last ones standing.

Within seconds the glow fades and the sounds of fighting stop. Before Crowley can open her eyes she hears fingers snapping, feels the dizzying effect of a surprise teleportation miracle. Then there’s quiet.

Crowley doesn’t move. She flicks her tongue out, tasting the air, the serpent part of her not yet convinced. She tastes old paper and leather and Divinity and vanilla and ozone and _home._

She opens her eyes.

Aziraphale meets her gaze, bottom lip caught between her teeth, wringing her hands. “Crowley? May I touch you?”

Crowley nods, blinking slowly against the light of the bookshop. She doesn’t say anything – _can’t_ say anything, with the size of the lump in her throat – as Aziraphale begins lightly pressing her hands against Crowley’s numerous wounds and healing them. Crowley doesn’t flinch. The cuts, the bruises, the runes carved into her skin, the burns from the holy water soaked rope, the stab wound on her side.

They hadn’t hurt her wings, at least. They didn’t seem to think she had any.

She closes her eyes again. Bit by bit Aziraphale heals it all. Doesn’t even try to coax Crowley out of her protective curl. Rather, she’d miracled them into one of the many shadowy corners of the bookshop, and Crowley’s back is pressed firmly against one of Aziraphale’s oldest bookshelves. The one that Crowley had made her, in fact, and the memory sends a shot of warmth through her veins.

Slowly, the hurt lessens. The cramps wane. The panicked feeling in Crowley’s chest evaporates. Even her hindbrain, that damned serpent way of thinking, recognizes she’s safe and eventually lets her uncurl a bit, lets her stretch out her legs and open her eyes.

Aziraphale sits at Crowley’s knees, one hand laying on her knee and the other curled into her lap. She’s tense, unbearably so, and Crowley notes the white-knuckled grip of her hand on her suit. 

“What,” Aziraphale asks, voice flat and teeth clenching, “happened?”

“Ngk,” Crowley says, trying to string a thought together. Every part of her still aches, her fragile human body not willing to realize she’s been fully healed. All except for the redness of her skin – Aziraphale’s Divinity hadn’t been aimed at her but she’d been close enough for it to burn a bit. Like spending too long in the sun.

She snorts at the comparison. It’s not far off.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says sharply, pressing and hand against Crowley’s cheek. “What happened?”

Crowley swallows. “You know how it goes. Someone finds a bit of lore that’s actually true, tries to summon a demon, and then suddenly I’m being used for parts.” She shakes her head. “How long was it this time, Angel? What’d I miss?”

Aziraphale sucks in a sharp breath and Crowley feels the hand against her cheek twitch. “Nearly a decade, darling.”

And Crowley can’t help the way her heart skips the next few beats at the endearment or the way it sinks, too, because the guilt in Aziraphale’s voice is enough to make Crowley force back a flinch.

“It’s not your fault,” she says, trying for a grin and probably failing. “I’ve been through worse. Nothing a miracle or two won’t fix, as you’ve already seen.”

Aziraphale frowns harder, eyes taking on a wickedly sharp edge. “You didn’t show up,” she hisses, and Crowley’s face must do something because Aziraphale’s voice breaks. “You didn’t show up and I thought you did it on purpose. I thought you were back in Hell telling all the other demons how you tricked an angel and had been for the past however many thousands of years. When really you were – you were –” Aziraphale lets out a strangled noise that makes Crowley’s heart break.

Crowley touches the hand on her cheek, leaning into her angel’s warmth. “It’s alright,” she whispers, because it is. She’s a demon and Aziraphale is an angel and it’s only natural.

Aziraphale shakes her head and when her eyes meet Crowley’s they are angrier than she’s ever seen them. “No, it’s not,” Aziraphale says, voice trembling. “You’ve come for me when I was in trouble, again and again, and it seems as if I fail you at every turn.”

“No,” Crowley says. “You’ve never failed me. Not once.”

Aziraphale moves closer to Crowley, her back pressing against the bookshelf. Their hips press together, their legs too, and Crowley has to remind herself to breathe, has to remind her heart that there’s really no need to beat that quickly, has to remind her body that she’s very nearly almost discorporated and if she were to go out via touch induced heart attack she’d never be able to live with the humiliation.

Crowley takes a deep, steadying breath, and lays her head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Lets herself melt into her angel’s side. Relishes the feeling of Aziraphale pressing her cheek to the top of her head in response.

Crowley’s nearly asleep when she hears Aziraphale whisper: “I should never have doubted you.”

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

She always knows when Aziraphale is looking at her. Those eyes burn her in the best way, make her skin tingle in the best way, makes the hair on the back of her neck rise in the _best way_. It’s half demonic instinct to flee while she still has the chance and half something else. Crowley doesn’t look at the second feeling too closely. Whatever it is, though, she finds she likes it. Likes the warmth of it, the intensity of it.

Aziraphale’s gaze beckons her but she doesn’t meet the call. Doesn’t raise her head from her drink, doesn’t acknowledge the angel’s presence.

_You go too fast for me, Crowley._

Twenty years and the words still pierce her through. Still rends the skin of her heart bloody, still takes her breath away from the pain of it. They haunt her too, another ghost to add to her collection, another intangible thing made tangible by her own traitorous heart.

She takes a sip of her drink. Part of her is surprised that Aziraphale would come here – bars aren’t exactly her angel’s first choice in food or entertainment, not the way they are Crowley’s. She sighs. This is one of the few lesbian bars in town and she won’t be able to come back for awhile, not now that Aziraphale has showed up. She goes to make a strategic retreat when a woman sidles up to her, blonde hair too dark and eyes the wrong shade of blue.

“You look like someone who could use a distraction,” the woman says, smiling.

Crowley smirks. “You could say that,” she says.

The woman nods and sits next to her, presses her knee to Crowley’s, and Crowley shudders at the touch. The last time she’d been deliberately touched was – was –

She’s not sure. It’s been awhile since she’s been to Hell but she imagines that was the last time.

“Anything in particular you have in mind?” the woman says, inching forward and resting her chin on her hand.

Crowley says something rote, something instinctive, too preoccupied with the intensity of Aziraphale’s gaze on her. It’s sharper now and Crowley’s skin almost crawls with it.

Something in Crowley’s chest cracks and she pulls the woman closer, whispers something in her ear but she doesn’t know what – she’s watching herself from outside her body, watching herself go through the familiar motions of a small temptation that she never carries to fruition.

The woman is lovely and kind but she’s not Aziraphale – doesn’t have that particular brand of iron Crowley craves underneath her skin, doesn’t have the dangerous but warm Divinity threading through her veins.

Crowley follows her lead anyway. Lets herself be persuaded from the bar and into the woman’s apartment a couple of blocks away. Lets herself trip up the stairs with the woman, lets herself be kissed, lets herself be led to the bedroom.

“Stop,” Crowley says, that thing in her chest cracking again.

The woman nods and pulls back, buttoning up her shirt. “You alright?”

_No._ Crowley shakes her head. Feels a lump beginning to form in her throat because she wants the closeness but not like this and certainly not with anyone other than Aziraphale.

She stumbles on her words. “I – I just – it’s just that –”

The woman doesn’t touch her. Instead she stands in front of Crowley and says, “Hey, hey, it’s okay. We don’t have to do anything. You can leave if you want, I promise I don’t mind.”

“Can we just –” she pauses, breath stuttering in her chest. She wants. But the last time she asked questions, the last time she indulged in questions, in _wants_ –

“What do you want to do?” the woman asks, sitting next to her on the bed, leaving a few inches between them.

Crowley curls in on herself. “Just hold me?”

The woman’s face softens. “Yeah, I can do that.”

And Crowley tries to pretend she’s Aziraphale. Tries to pretend she radiates the same heat, tries and tries and tries. But she can’t. The woman is taller than her angel, skinnier too, and there’s no familiar tingling of her skin.

Crowley doesn’t fall asleep but she does stay, wrapped in the woman’s arms, the touch not right but better than nothing. She slips away in the early morning hours, desperate for a touch she knows she’ll never get, haunted by the centuries old memory of Aziraphale’s arm around her waist.

The pit in her chest tunnels into her stomach and fills her up even as it hollows her. The feeling is heavy and aching, too. Her hands tremble. The lump in her throat grows sharper, the burning behind her eyes more insistent, and she snaps her fingers. Between one moment and the next she’s in her own bed under the weight of all of her blankets, hugging a pillow to her chest and burying her face into it, ignoring how quickly it becomes wet.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Crowley visits the bar again the next night, pressing her back into the corner booth, sipping a glass of wine. It’s shit wine in a shit bar but it doesn’t matter because Aziraphale is here, Aziraphale is on the other side of the room, her gaze piercing through the bodies between them.

Crowley wants her to come closer. Wants Aziraphale to press her lips to hers, wants to feel those fingers pressed against her skin.

_Kiss me,_ she thinks, and something in Aziraphale’s too blue eyes flicker and their shared gaze becomes blinding and attention stealing, and for a single moment they’re the only ones in the room.

_Kiss me, kiss me, come over here and kiss me._

Crowley burns with the intensity of Aziraphale’s gaze, feels herself blush, feels the way the Hellfire under her skin rises closer to the surface.

Aziraphale doesn’t look away, gaze steady as ever, and once again Crowley is the one to break eye contact. She lifts her wine glass to her lips and downs it in one go. She licks her lips. When she looks up again Aziraphale has risen from her seat and started walking over and every instinct of Crowley’s tells her to run so she does – snaps her fingers and she’s in her flat, sinking into her couch, wondering what in the fuck just happened.

She doesn’t go back to the bar.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Aziraphale asks her, one night, if she regrets any of it.

“What do you mean?” she asks, the hair on the back of her neck rising at the look in her angel’s eyes. She’s not nearly drunk enough for what’s about to happen, for whatever words Aziraphale is about to say.

“Do you ever wish things were different?” she asks, hands steady where they grip the bottle of wine, a look in her eyes that Crowley knows all too well.

Crowley gives her one more chance to stop. “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific than that, I’m afraid,” she says, taking a swig from her own bottle.

Aziraphale’s gaze is sharp enough to hurt. “You know what I’m asking.”

Crowley smirks. “Brave tonight, I see.”

Aziraphale straightens. “I admit I’ve wanted to know for quite some time,” she says, but some of the courage seems to leave her. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, of course.”

Crowley moves out of her sprawl and into a somewhat more correct sitting position. She looks at Aziraphale from over her glasses. _Last chance, angel._ Because she doesn’t want to talk about this. She’ll never want to talk about this. But Aziraphale has a knack for making her do things she’d rather not do.

“What do you mean, Angel?”

Aziraphale, for all of her sweet softness, can be a right bastard sometimes. “Do you ever wish you hadn’t Fallen?”

Crowley blinks, feeling her chest go tight, feeling a phantom wind ripping through her hair and feathers. She doesn’t know why her memories of Heaven are so perfectly clear. Maybe it’s the final nail in the coffin of her bitterness – _yes,_ she imagines God thinking, _let time not dull these memories. Let them always be sharper than a knife and let them always cut deep._

Whatever the case, she remembers. She doesn’t know if the other demons do and doesn’t bother to ask. It’s not like they’d comfort each other. Not like they’d hold each other tight and promise that even though it hurts, even though it’s excruciating, even though it feels as if the pain will never dull, it was worth it.

And that’s just the fucking kicker, isn’t it? After the Fall not even Satan himself had sat everyone down and said it was worth it. Maybe that’s why all of her fellow demons are so bitter, so damn ready to sow violence and cruelty. What else do they know? She can’t remember God’s love without feeling as if she’s burning alive, can’t remember the sound of Her voice without her ears ringing loud enough to leave her deaf for weeks afterward.

What’s a demon to do when their only memories of love are tarnished with pain so acute it sends tears running down their face? What’s she supposed to do when faced with that? _Not_ be bitter? _Not_ regret?

The thing is, though, is that she doesn’t regret, not really. Maybe before and during, but not after. No, when she hit the ground there wasn’t a single hint of regret to be found. Nothing but fury and hurt and questions.

“You wouldn’t get it, Angel,” she says, already done with the conversation.

She doesn’t have to look at Aziraphale to know that a determined frown has made its home upon her face. “Then explain it to me.”

Crowley sighs. One of those nights, then – a night where Aziraphale keeps pushing and pushing for answers. Normally Crowley wouldn’t mind. Normally she’d encourage it. All about questions, she is. All about asking the tough ones and getting some answers.

But these nights are rare and when they happen all Aziraphale wants to know more about is Crowley. Her Fall. Her time in Hell. If she remembers anything in Heaven.

“Hitting the ground changed things,” Crowley says, taking another generous sip of her wine. She doesn’t look at Aziraphale – can’t – but from the corner of her eye she sees her lean forward, a gleam in her eyes. It’s a gleam Crowley knows all too well.

Crowley pauses for a bit, trying to find the words, but there are none. Not really. There’s no language to encapsulate the full feeling of that awful freefall or the sudden halt of it, the impact shattering her in ways she hadn’t known she could be.

She tries, though. “Angel, I –” she rubs a hand over her face, nearly knocking her glasses off in the process. Takes a deep breath. Tries again. “There wasn’t any room left in me for regret. Once the dust settled, there wasn’t – I couldn’t –” She barks out a laugh, blinking hard behind her glasses so the tears won’t fall. “I regret a lot of things, Angel, but not that,” she says.

Aziraphale cocks her head to the side. “Oh?” she says. “So if you could be redeemed you wouldn’t be?”

Crowley snorts, sharp and ugly, and takes a long drink from her bottle. Tries to ignore her trembling hands. “That’s not how it works. Demons don’t get redeemed.”

“But if you could.”

“Never,” she says, voice hoarse as she forces the word around the white-hot ball of anger lodged in her throat. “It wouldn’t matter. I’d Fall again.” 

“But –”

“Ssstop it!” she hisses, standing in one violent motion. “Don’t you get it? I don’t _get_ to be redeemed. I’m unforgiveable, remember?” she says, throwing her arms out wide. “There’s no redemption to be had, Angel.”

Aziraphale doesn’t let it go. She makes a placating gesture, one that makes Crowley’s lips curl. “What I meant was –”

“I don’t care what you meant,” Crowley cuts in. “SSSShe doesssn’t get my forgivenesssss,” Crowley hisses, unable to control it. “Not after what SSShe did to me. I only ever asssked quessstionsss. I didn’t doubt Her – I jussst wanted to know more than what SSShe wasss willing to give.”

There’s a beat of silence punctuated by Crowley’s rough breathing. She’s looming over the coffee table between them, her shins pressed up into it. She can feel the Hellfire running through her veins sparking at her anger and wonders if Aziraphale can see it – can see the way it brightens her serpentine eyes and curls around her heart.

Whatever Aziraphale sees, though, doesn’t make her harden. It makes her eyes go soft, that gleam of curiosity gone. “I shouldn’t have pried,” she says, refusing to let go of Crowley’s gaze.

Crowley huffs, the anger already simmering down. “No shit,” she says tiredly, collapsing back onto the couch in a comfortable sprawl. She’s about to change the subject entirely when Aziraphale’s voice rings out whisper soft.

“Was it worth it?”

It’s soft enough that for a moment Crowley thinks that she wasn’t meant to hear it. She glances over – sees the widening of Aziraphale’s eyes, the high blush on her cheeks, the way her hands clasp over her mouth.

“Crowley, my dear, I’m sor –”

“Yes,” Crowley interrupts, letting her glasses slide down her nose so that she can peer over the rims at her angel. She thinks of afternoons spent feeding ducks, of drinks at the Ritz, of walking around for hours with no particular destination. She thinks of the curve of Aziraphale’s smile and the sharpness it gains whenever she’s talking to a customer. She thinks of the twitch of her angel’s lips whenever Crowley says something truly dastardly that Aziraphale agrees with but can’t verbally say so. She thinks of hurried meetings in crowded areas, thinks of glances across busy streets, thinks of every time their hands have ever accidentally brushed.

Mostly, though, she thinks of the night all those centuries ago in that little warm room.

“Yes,” she breathes, looking at Aziraphale, always looking at Aziraphale. “It was worth it.”

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

There are nights Crowley aches so deeply she can hardly stand it. Nights where she’ll do anything to rid herself of it. She knows how Aziraphale’s arms feel around her and it’s the worst kind of torture, the worst kind of agony, because she knows she’ll never have it again.

She’s the Serpent, after all. The Original Temptress. She was Damned before she ever slithered her way into the Garden. Hell, she was Damned before she ever Fell. She was made with a penchant for curiosity and Heaven would never allow that to exist within its walls. And she can stomach that. Has had six thousand years or so to stomach it. 

And if she was _made_ to be curious then she was _made_ to be Damned, _made_ to Fall. There’s no happy ending for her. There is an ending she can stomach and an ending she can’t, and the ending she can stomach best is the one where Aziraphale and her are, at the very least, friends. She can’t expect more because it’s not in the cards.

The deck’s been stacked against her since day one, and she’s stomached that. She _has._

It doesn’t stop her from wanting more though.

Crowley curls deeper into her nest of blankets, miracling a weighted blanket on top of her pile for good measure. She adds a few more pillows while she’s at it, even goes so far as to hug one to her chest.

It’s not enough.

She wants Aziraphale. Wants to curl around her angel, wants her angel to curl around her. Wants to nuzzle into her neck and breathe in her scent and listen to her heartbeat. Wants and wants and wants.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

The Apocalypse begins. Crowley’s world starts to end.

She asks Aziraphale, again and again, placing her heart on her sleeve and begging her not to hurt her.

“Run away with me,” she says. “Big universe, no one will find us.”

_Let me save you,_ she thinks. _Let me do something good for once in my miserable existence_. _Damn them all, Angel, and let me save you._

Aziraphale’s eyes, lovely and determined, are dark. Stormy.

Crowley isn’t surprised by her answer, but her heart drops to her feet anyway.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

The bookshop burns and so does Crowley.

Well, not literally, but she might as well be.

“Aziraphale!” she screams, feeling it claw up her throat and leave it bloody. Smoke overwhelms all of her senses as she whips around, tasting the air, desperate for a hint of her angel.

_Please,_ she thinks, _not her. Take me instead, Damn me again, crush me beneath the heel of your boot like you’ve always wanted to but please, God, not her._

God never was one for listening to her.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Crowley’s knees hit the ground against her will. She feels Satan’s presence pressing up against her own, all brimstone and sulphur and barbed wire. She closes her eyes against the onslaught, grits her teeth and groans with the force of throwing off his will.

His presence weighs heavy at the back of her mind, a physical weight as much as a mental one, and it takes everything she has to not sink into the ground and be dragged back to Hell.

She opens her eyes and turns to Aziraphale, needing to see those blue eyes one last time.

“It was nice knowing you,” she says. _It was nice loving you. It was nice adoring you. It was nice being near you, being with you, drinking with you, talking with you, existing with you._

But Aziraphale’s eyes are thunder and windstorm and raging seas, gaze burning into her in the best way.

“Do something,” Aziraphale says, glancing at her sword. “Do something or I’ll never speak to you again!”

Crowley blinks. Absorbs the blow. Looks into those blue eyes and sees nothing but determination and grit and a backbone of steel.

She throws up her hands and forces the world to stop.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Crowley is glad she’s not an angel. She wasn’t a good one to begin with, not with her questions, and even if she’d managed to stay in Heaven she would have Fallen eventually.

Angels aren’t supposed to want, after all, and if Crowley had met Aziraphale in Heaven she would have wanted. Even now, demonic as she is, she wants. Wants Aziraphale’s fingers running through her hair, wants Aziraphale’s voice whispering sweet nothings in her ear, wants to know what those lips feel like pressed against her own.

There is no room in Heaven for the amount of _want_ shoved into her heart and stuffed between her ribs.

Their hands brush on the bus afterwards. Crowley doesn’t think anything of it – revels in the split second contact and expects nothing else. But then Aziraphale’s hand is in hers, and Aziraphale’s fingers are entwining with hers, and she feels her heart stutter in her chest.

She feels Aziraphale’s gaze on her face, feels her skin heat up with it, but doesn’t meet it. Instead she keeps her eyes focused on the window, looking at their reflection. Aziraphale looks like she always does, though her curls are a little wilder, her eyes a little brighter, the lines of her shoulders a bit more relaxed.

_Love me,_ she thinks, unable to move, unable to do anything that might break the moment. _Love me, love me._

Aziraphale turns her head towards the reflection and meets Crowley’s gaze, eyes bright, and Crowley knows. Has known for thousands of years, but here, right now, it sinks into her again, the certainty of it all.

Where Aziraphale goes she will follow.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

For one wild moment she thinks Aziraphale is going to crawl into bed with her. She twitches, lifting the duvet a little higher, a silent invitation.

Aziraphale’s eyes glow in the darkness of her room. Crowley can see the Divinity swirling just beneath the surface, faint blue lines tracing underneath her skin, so easily mistaken for veins. Aziraphale hesitates for a single, brief second before snapping her fingers. Her nightgown is tartan and Crowley grins, lifting the duvet higher.

“Come on, Angel,” she says. “The world will be here tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she says, climbing under the covers, “but will we?”

Crowley doesn’t answer. Instead she scoots to the other end of the bed, giving Aziraphale her space. She doesn’t want to crowd. Doesn’t want to move too fast. But her skin aches with how close her angel is, her fingers itching to touch.

Aziraphale wriggles for a moment, getting comfortable, before lying on her side and facing Crowley. She squints. “Why are you so far away, darling?”

“Ngk,” Crowley says, heart in her throat, tearing her eyes away from Aziraphale’s gaze.

Aziraphale tuts. “You can come closer if you want.”

Crowley wants. She _wants._ But she can’t. If she closes the gap she doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to unclose it. The question sits on the tip of her tongue, begging to be let out: _What do you want from me, angel?_

Because there’s only so much she can take, only so long she can be patient, only so much hurt she can withstand. Does Aziraphale know how her eyes burn Crowley, how her presence makes her ache in the best and worst ways?

She wants to ask. Desperately so. But she knows what happens when she asks the important questions. She doesn’t think it’s a Fall she’ll be able to live through.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says, voice gentle, and Crowley is helpless against it.

Crowley shifts closer, inch by inch, until their noses nearly brush. She can feel Aziraphale’s body heat, feels it sink into her skin and muscles and she leans forward a little more, helpless against the pull of it.

“Angel?” she whispers, voice tremulous. _Is this okay? Can I come closer?_

She can’t bridge the gap. Can’t move those last few centimeters. Can’t take that risk, not after the day she’s had.

Aziraphale takes the risk for her. Places a hand on Crowley’s waist and pulls her closer. Slides that hand up Crowley’s side and tangles it into her hair. Crowley makes a noise, some garbled, embarrassing thing that she’ll deny ever came out of her mouth, as Aziraphale presses their lips together.

Crowley gasps and Aziraphale kisses the tip of her nose, grinning, and then presses their foreheads together. Crowley melts into her, her skin tingling and oversensitive already. Her eyes burn with tears and she closes them, unwilling to let them fall.

“Is this alright?” Aziraphale asks, leaning away.

Crowley follows. “Don’t you dare move,” she says, pressing her eyes closed harder, because if this is a dream she never wants to wake up. If this is a dream she wants to stay here, forever and ever, wrapped up in Aziraphale’s arms.

She curls in closer, clinging and wanting and overwhelmed, something soft unfurling in her chest. Her breath trembles. She hides her face in the curve of Aziraphale’s neck, unwilling to let her see her cry but unable to turn away.

Aziraphale’s hand begins running up and down the length of her spine, warm and soothing. “I’ve got you,” she says, entangling their legs. “I’ve got you.”

Tired as she is, Crowley still questions. Still can’t help but think, even as she succumbs to her exhaustion: _For how much longer?_

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

After the Apocawasn’t, things settle. For most, things go on as if nothing had ever happened – mostly because, for them, nothing really _had_ happened. For others, though, quite a lot did, and so new routines emerge.

Crowley doesn’t sleep for the first few days after everything has settled down. Can’t. Instead she takes Aziraphale for long walks in the park, for visits to museums, for breakfasts and lunches and dinners. Then they go back to the bookshop and drink and talk until dawn breaks and then Crowley is up again, unable to sit still, going and going and _going._

But Crowley has been sleeping for almost as long as she’s been on Earth. It’s not something she can shake off, not something she can quit cold turkey. It’s not even that she wants to quit sleeping. But she’s been down this road before in a thousand different ways – she’ll close her eyes and the bookshop will be burning, _Aziraphale will be burning,_ and she doesn’t think she can handle that, not yet.

Her body decides for her. She’s laying on the couch, the sun hitting it perfectly, and between one blink and the next the bookshop is burning because of course it is. Aziraphale is burning because of course she is. And Crowley is screaming and screaming and screaming because what else is there for her to do when faced with her entire world turning to ashes before her? 

_“Crowley!”_

She snaps awake with a sob, heart beating hard against her chest, but Aziraphale is there and _alive_ and _unharmed_ and _not burning_ and that’s all the permission Crowley needs. She launches herself at Aziraphale, wrapping her arms around her neck. It’s more tackle than hug, really, and would’ve sent them sprawling to the ground had they been anyone else.

But they’re not anyone else. Aziraphale is an angel and angels hold steady and so she does just that, her arms wrapping around Crowley’s waist, warm and strong and very much alive.

“Crowley, dear, are you alright?” Aziraphale says, rubbing a hand up and down Crowley’s spine, her voice soft and worried.

“Fine, Angel,” she says, voice wavering, her body trembling.

Aziraphale snorts. “Very convincing, darling,” she says, lifting Crowley into her arms as she does so.

Crowley goes willingly, hiding her face in Aziraphale’s neck and breathing her in, all Divinity and vanilla and ozone and old books. Closes her eyes. Revels in it because in a moment Aziraphale will put her down and putter around with her books some more. In a moment Crowley will be left on her own again. In a moment she will have to disentangle herself from her angel’s warmth, will be left with only the lingering feeling of those strong arms holding her and that heartbeat echoing her own.

But Aziraphale doesn’t put her down. Instead she starts moving, her gait sure and steady, and Crowley almost misses it when Aziraphale begins ascending the stairs.

Crowley startles a bit, pulling away from Aziraphale. “Angel?”

Aziraphale’s grip tightens a bit, holding her steady. “Yes, darling?”

Crowley’s heart skips a beat as it always does. “What are you doing?” she whispers, voice quiet because it’s deep into night, so deep it might be morning. There’s no sound other than Aziraphale’s hushed steps and their breathing. Nothing but Aziraphale’s arms holding Crowley close to her chest and Crowley can’t stop the blush radiating across her face.

“Taking you to my bed, of course,” Aziraphale says with the same cadence she’d say _the sky is blue_ or _the ducks are hungry today_ or _let’s go to the new café down the street._ She says it as if those words in that order frequently pass through her lips and Crowley nearly chokes.

“Ngk – fsgd – what?”

Aziraphale grins at her, eyes twinkling, but doesn’t say anything. Instead she walks into her seldom used bedroom. It’s bare, for the most part, but dust free. Bookshelves line the walls, home to Aziraphale’s most beloved manuscripts and scrolls, along with the ones too fragile to be in the shop where they could be accidentally smushed.

The bed is as large as Crowley’s but not nearly as used. There’s a couple of flat pillows, a thin blanket, and not much else. The desk in the corner looks heavily used, and despite the fact that Crowley is _still being carried_ by Aziraphale,she snorts.

“You know, it’s usually the beds in bedrooms that get the most attention,” she says.

Aziraphale shoots her a look. “Hush, you. Miracle up whatever you like be we’re going to bed.”

“We?” Crowley squeaks even as she complies, snapping thrice in succession.

Aziraphale doesn’t bother glancing down at the miracled pajamas Crowley just put her in. “Yes, we.”

Aziraphale walks to the edge of the bed, now covered in blankets and pillows of all different shapes, sizes, and softness, and sets Crowley down. She goes to move away but Crowley tightens her grip on Aziraphale’s shirt, unwilling to leave the safety of her arms, because as long as she can touch Aziraphale she’s safe and alive and not burning.

Aziraphale looks at her, her gaze burning a trail of blush as she glances over Crowley’s face. They’re close enough that Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s breath on her cheeks, can see the thin blue trails of Divinity underneath the thin skin of her eyelids. Crowley would barely have to move to kiss her, would barely have to sigh to close the distance, but she holds herself back.

All at once it’s too much. Aziraphale’s too warm, too lovely, too kissable, too everything, and Crowley jerks away, trying to disguise the movement into settling down on the opposite side of the bed.

She hears Aziraphale sigh but doesn’t look at her, busying herself with arranging the blankets and pillows just so. The bed dips as Aziraphale climbs in and after another few moments Crowley settles. They face each other, Crowley so far to her side of the bed that if she turned over she’d fall off. She curls deeper into herself, chasing warmth that won’t come.

“You can come closer, darling,” Aziraphale says, holding out a hand.

Crowley’s breath hitches at the offer and that ache in her chest – the one that’s been with her since the Beginning, gnawing at her like a familiar parasite she never quite figured out how to get rid of - spasms. It hollows her out and she hugs herself, cringing away from Aziraphale’s hand even though she wants nothing more than to take it.

“Angel,” she says, the lump in her throat tearing through her vocal chords. “What do you want from me?”

Aziraphale blinks, mouth dropping open a bit, sucking in a sharp breath. “What?”

Crowley shakes her head, unable to stop the tears slipping down her face. She’s crumbling against her will, trembling and aching and wanting nothing more than to give in. But she can’t. Not yet. She needs to know, needs to make sure that they’re on the same page, but the last time she asked questions – the last time didn’t – she didn’t mean to – she just wanted _to know_ and _–_

“I can’t, Angel,” she says. “I can’t come closer because –” _it’ll ruin me. You’ve ruined me._

Aziraphale’s eyes glow in the darkness of the room, glistening. There’s a hitch in her voice when she speaks that nearly breaks Crowley’s resolve. “You’ve spent a lot of time waiting for me, haven’t you?”

Crowley nods, chewing on her lip, not trusting herself to speak. The ache in her chest pulses hard, sending a dull pain radiating throughout her body. Aziraphale is so close to her, just within arm’s reach, but Crowley can’t cross that distance. Not until she’s sure, because eventually she has to put herself first. Eventually her self-preservation has to actually do its job and so she clings to it with every ounce of strength she has.

Aziraphale scoots closer, close enough for Crowley to feel the heat of her. “Darling, I’ve kept you waiting for so long,” Aziraphale says, the glistening of her eyes giving way to tears and Crowley’s heart drops to her stomach.

“Angel,” she blurts, hands reaching but stopping just before touching. “Angel, I didn’t mean –”

Aziraphale’s gaze – too blue, too lovely, too everything – pierces her and she snaps her mouth shut.

“Crowley, you listen to me and you listen hard,” Aziraphale says, softening. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I kept you waiting. I’m sorry that you were always the brave one. I’m sorry that the only excuse I have is that I was afraid.” Aziraphale pauses, her eyes darting from Crowley’s to the bed sheets to Crowley’s again.

“If you need me to be the brave one this time, I can be,” Aziraphale says, voice hushed. “I’m not afraid anymore, Crowley. I love you, darling, and I’ve loved you for so long.”

Crowley’s throat aches as a strangled keen slips from her lips. “Say it again,” she says.

Aziraphale doesn’t hesitate. “I love you.”

“Again.”

“I love you.”

Carefully, hand trembling, Crowley reaches out to Aziraphale. Her angel doesn’t hesitate, taking Crowley’s hand in hers and tugging her closer, closer, until Crowley’s head is tucked under her chin and their legs are tangled together and all Crowley can hear is Aziraphale’s breaths and heartbeat, all she can smell is Aziraphale, all she can sense is Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s arms wrap around her and her breath hitches and for a moment it’s the fourteenth century again and they’re back in that little room, Aziraphale’s warmth the only thing keeping Crowley alive. Crowley thinks that maybe this is absolution, maybe this is forgiveness, maybe this is the heaven she’s been seeking since being thrown out because there is nothing – _nothing –_ she would not do for Aziraphale.

The sob surprises her, causing her to jolt, but Aziraphale steadies her as she cries. Her angel’s hand keeps a steady rhythm as she rubs her back, pulling her ever closer. Crowley clings back, gripping the back of Aziraphale’s nightgown with all of her strength. If Aziraphale were to push her away now she knows she wouldn’t survive the aftermath.

But Aziraphale doesn’t push her away. Not when she stops crying. Not when she falls asleep. Not when she wakes in the morning still ensconced in Aziraphale’s embrace. If anything Aziraphale has pulled her closer during the night, wrapping her in her soft white wings, protecting her from the outside world.

Crowley, curled as she is against Aziraphale’s chest, peeks up, expecting – well, she’s not sure. Something not good, maybe. But Aziraphale’s gaze is warm and her smile warmer.

“Good morning, love,” she says.

And Crowley grins, feeling that pit inside of her chest begin to fill.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

It’s not an immediate fix. Crowley still hesitates before touching Aziraphale, before kissing her, and there are days where no matter how badly she wants to she can’t bridge the gap. Days where she can’t even ask Aziraphale to touch her because asking the important questions mean –

Not anymore, of course, but she doesn’t think she’ll ever really get over her Fall and the events leading up to it.

But Aziraphale is kind, Aziraphale is steady, and Aziraphale understands. She reaches, again and again, for Crowley. They hold hands walking down the streets. They cuddle together on the couch, Aziraphale reading aloud from one of her books as Crowley revels in her warmth. Aziraphale will press a chaste kiss to wherever she can reach as Crowley brushes past her throughout the day – given their height it’s often a kiss to Crowley’s shoulder, and Crowley will be warm for the rest of the day. Aziraphale runs her fingers through Crowley’s hair given any opportunity, and it gets to the point where Crowley grows her hair long so that Aziraphale can play with it and braid it for her.

Crowley basks in the attention and returns it when she can, sometimes in the form of a kiss and other times in the form of a well-cooked meal.

Once they move to the cottage, though, and the lingering uneasiness of the once-burnt bookshop slips off of her shoulders, Crowley finds herself touching Aziraphale more often – a brush of fingers here, a kiss there. And Aziraphale never pulls away, never says no, never doesn’t reach back.

Aziraphale always reaches back.

There’s dirt under Crowley’s nails now from hours spent in the garden. There’s callouses on her hands that she’s decided not to miracle away, and her freckles are more prominent than ever despite the wide brimmed hat she wears to keep the sun off her face.

“Crowley, tea is ready!”

Crowley looks over her shoulder to the cottage, spotting Aziraphale through the large kitchen window that overlooks the garden. Aziraphale’s got flour smudged across her cheeks, no doubt from the fresh loaf of bread she baked, and a smile splits her face. Crowley beams back.

“Be in soon,” she says, using a small miracle to ensure Aziraphale hears.

Aziraphale waves back and Crowley gives her full attention to the apple tree in front of her, muttering under her breath as Aziraphale’s gaze burns through the back of her head.

**Author's Note:**

> me, shoving my lesbian yearning and catholic guilt onto crowley: this is fine
> 
> [tumblr](https://wanderingrestlessly.tumblr.com)


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